Reliquary
by Marguerite1
Summary: Our relics are not always what they appear to be.
1. Reliquary (1a/4)

Title: Reliquary   
Classification: General, political   
Summary: "It was a symbol of my faith, and I had it right here in my hands."   
  
  
***   
Reliquary   
***  
  
  
"As long as we're not putting Lord John Marbury in charge of anything, Mr.  
President, I really don't see why you'd think I need to be here for  
this...ceremony."  
  
"Leo, you never cease to amuse me." Bartlet laughed for a moment as he put on  
his jacket, using the highly-polished desktop as a mirror so he could straighten  
his tie. "It's not that big a deal, I'll grant you, but I'd still like you here.  
Bulgaria's come through for us on any number of occasions, both for me and for  
my predecessors, and if they send us a new ambassador then I think there should  
be two people to meet him."  
  
"True enough. And with the new problems cropping up in Macedonia, it'd probably  
be better, a more solid front, if it were the Vice-President--"  
  
"The Vice-President in Nebraska at the moment."  
  
"What the hell's in Nebraska, Mr. President?" Leo frowned as he adjusted his  
shirt sleeves.  
  
"Corn, Leo, I don't know. He's opening...something or other, and giving a  
speech. But the thing is that we're getting this new guy in a few minutes and  
I'd like to have more than one important man in the room. Let him know we take  
this seriously."  
  
"As seriously as I take coming in on a Saturday morning to work with Josh on the  
farm subsidies bill, take a few dozen meetings relating to your re-election  
campaign, set up a week's worth of briefings, and the other assorted duties I  
perform in order to keep your White House running?"  
  
"Yes, Leo, because you're a prince among men." Bartlet patted him on the arm.  
"Just remember that I'm the king."  
  
Charlie knocked on the door and opened it far enough to be seen. "They're here,  
sir."  
  
"Thank you, Charlie. Would you show everyone in, please?" The President shook  
hands with the man from the State Department as Charlie ushered in the  
photographers and showed them where to stand. "Welcome, Mr. Lewis - and who have  
we here?"  
  
The Chief of Protocol smiled and nodded at their guest. "Mr. President, it is  
with pleasure that I present his excellency Mikhail Arensky, and by request of  
the Secretary of State ask that you accept his credentials from Prime Minister  
Ivan Kostov as Bulgaria's ambassador to the United States."  
  
Arensky seemed young for someone with this kind of responsibility, probably in  
his early thirties. He was of medium height and build, with dark hair in a  
military cut. There was a long scar bisecting his left eyebrow and heading up  
into his hairline, but in spite of that his dark eyes were youthful and honest  
as he met the President's appraising gaze.  
  
There were smiles all around the Oval Office. President Bartlet extended his  
hand to the young man and shook it firmly. "Mr. Arensky, I accept your letter of  
credence from Prime Minister Kostov and by affixing my signature and seal, do  
hereby declare you to be an ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary."  
  
Flashbulbs went off all around them as they posed, smiling, hands clasped. "I'm  
going to miss Philip," Bartlet said to Arensky, referring to his predecessor.  
"But he deserved the promotion and I'm glad he recommended you for the post."  
  
"Yes, Mr. President. I'm honored to have been asked to take his place." The two  
men shifted positions a little and Bartlet noticed that Arensky seemed  
distracted by the sight of Charlie and Leo talking at the door. "Ah, good, it's  
here," said Arensky.  
  
"What's here?" Bartlet craned his neck and saw Charlie bring in a small box.  
  
Charlie handed it to Arensky with a polite nod. "I'm terribly sorry about the  
delay, Mr. Ambassador. We had to call someone in from the Gift Office and she's  
just sent it over."  
  
"Perfectly understandable," Arensky said, then turned back to Bartlet. "Mr.  
President, on behalf of the Bulgarian government, it is my pleasure to present  
you with this token of our esteem and appreciation."  
  
Bartlet took the proffered box, smiling, waiting for the photographers to snap a  
few more pictures. He opened it carefully and removed the contents with care and  
reverence. The item was silver, about nine inches high, a sculpture of a young  
woman at prayer. "Mr. Ambassador, I'm absolutely speechless."  
  
"Hold it up, Mr. President," called the photographer, coming closer for a better  
shot.  
  
"I'm looking for the attributes," the President said as he peered at the  
beautiful object. "I'm not sure who she is."  
  
"Saint Euphemia of Bleven," Arensky supplied.  
  
"Oh, of course, of course. The workmanship is beyond belief." He held the little  
statue close to his heart. "She was always one of my favorites."  
  
"That's what we heard, Mr. President, so of course we were happy to be able to  
find this version of her and bring her to you."  
  
"I really am most grateful. She's lovely." The President set the icon down while  
the photographers started to pack up their gear. "Mr. Lewis, are we done for the  
day?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. President. Thank you, sir."  
  
"Thank you, and thank you again, Mr. Ambassador, for this lovely, lovely gift."  
Bartlet shook hands with the two men and walked back to his desk, picking up the  
silver statue again. "Leo, have you ever seen anything like this?"  
  
"It's very beautiful. May I?" Leo cradled it carefully, marveling at its  
intricate details. "The design on the gown. The hair, even the eyebrows. I can't  
begin to imagine the work that went into it."  
  
"This is a keeper," Bartlet said, and Leo murmured his assent.  
  
Charlie knocked on the door and opened it. "Mr. President, I'm sorry for the  
intrusion, but Yolanda Ortiz is here to see you and she says it's urgent."  
  
"Who's Yolanda Ortiz?" Bartlet asked Leo.  
  
"She's one of the people in the Gift Office. Pretty high up, if I remember  
correctly."  
  
"Send her in, Charlie, thanks." Bartlet walked over and shook hands with her.  
"Ms. Ortiz, what can we do for you?"  
  
She looked like someone who was usually poised, dressed in an immaculate gray  
suit with her exquisite black hair coiled in an elaborate bun. Bartlet noticed  
that she was shifting from foot to foot, nervously, looking down for a moment  
before looking back up at him. "Not to mince words, Mr. President, but we need  
you to return the gift from Mr. Arensky with all possible speed."  
  
"The icon?" Bartlet asked. He reached behind him and picked it up, cradling it  
in his hands. "Didn't your office vet this already?"  
  
"Mr. Arensky's gift came unexpectedly. We ran it through very as fast as we  
could. We scanned and x-rayed it, and the people who read the reports said there  
was no metal or explosive devices inside."  
  
"So what, exactly, is the problem?" Leo asked.  
  
"Mr. President, we scanned it for things like metal and explosives. We didn't  
look that carefully for...other things."  
  
Leo blanched. "Are you saying that this contains some form of weapon, that it's  
dangerous?"  
  
"No, sir. I'm not saying anything like that. But if you look closely, you'll see  
that the coil of hair that goes all the way down the side is actually a hinge.  
Once I realized that the item had an opening, I went back to the x-rays and got  
my people to look again. There's something in there, Mr. President."  
  
Bartlet sighed, still holding the silver statue in his hands. "It's a reliquary,  
isn't it?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"A reliquary," Bartlet said to pre-empt the question he saw in Leo's eyes, "is a  
devotional item, sometimes an effigy of a saint but usually in the form of  
whatever it contains..."  
  
"Oh, God, please tell me this isn't what I think it is," Leo moaned. "Ms. Ortiz,  
what the hell is inside this thing?"  
  
Ms. Ortiz shook her head and grimaced. "From what we've seen on the x-ray, Mr.  
McGarry, we have reason to believe that it's a finger. A human finger."  
  
***   
End part 1a/4  
To part 1b   
  



	2. Reliquary (1b/4)

RELIQUARY   
part 1b/4  
  
***  
  
"Explain to me again," Bartlet said, wearily, to the harried gift officer, "how  
no one noticed this thing?"  
  
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," Ms. Ortiz said. "When we get a gift into our office,  
we're looking for metal or traces of explosives. There's never been any reason  
to check a gift for human remains. In fact, once we did go back over the x-rays,  
we had to ask four people what the shape was before someone - whose sister is a  
doctor - was able to identify it as a finger."  
  
"I guess it's not a common occurrence to find body parts in Presidential gifts.  
But you'll be looking for them in future?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"That's about as much as I can ask of anyone. Thank you, Ms. Ortiz."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. President," she said as Charlie ushered her out of the office.  
  
Leo rubbed his forehead. "This day certainly is turning out differently than we  
imagined. And here I thought all I had to deal with was Josh being cranky and  
keeping Bruno and Toby from murdering each other."  
  
"Yeah, it's not every day that someone gives the President the finger."  
  
"I'm serious, sir. I think there's a big problem here."  
  
"How so?" Bartlet asked as he picked up the little statue again and turned it  
over and over in his hands.  
  
"Well, let's start with the complicated one. I'm pretty sure that there's a  
rule, somewhere, about transporting human remains internationally. Did he have  
this looked at before he left? He didn't have diplomatic immunity when he left  
Bulgaria, so why didn't our guys in Customs see it?"  
  
"I suspect they did see it, Leo, and what Ms. Ortiz said about the Gift Office  
is probably true for the Customs agents, as well."  
  
"Okay, then setting those questions aside, here's the smaller but more important  
picture. It's just wrong for the government to accept human remains as a gift."  
  
"We've taken mummies before."  
  
"Not as gifts, as loans. And there's plenty of backlash whenever new ones are  
purchased, loaned, or whatever, for museums. And with good reason, Mr.  
President," he continued softly, "because there are a lot of people, myself  
included, who believe that the dead should be left in peace regardless of how  
interesting they might be."  
  
"I understand," Bartlet said, nodding. "I really do understand. But what about  
historical research?"  
  
Leo made a sour face. "I think we know pretty much all we need to know about  
ancient burial practices, Mr. President."  
  
"I think there's no limit on what we can learn about any given subject, Leo, but  
I'll let that slide for right now and get back on the subject of this particular  
item." He pointed to the face of the saint, which bore a sweet, patient  
expression. "It has religious implications. Euphemia's influence is a good one,  
strong and kind. She's one of my favorite saints for a reason."  
  
"I understand that. If they'd just sent you a statue, that's fine. But this  
has--"  
  
"Human remains. I get it, I really do" Bartlet gently ran his finger along the  
outline of the statue. "I just can't believe that anyone would begrudge a gift  
sent in hopes that it would move me deeply. And it has moved me deeply.""  
  
"If you were a private citizen, then I might argue that you could get away with  
it. But when someone gives something to you, it's also being given to the United  
States Government."  
  
"I'm pretty sure that it was for me. My name's on the box, Leo. Besides, it's  
not as if he gave a set of dishes or something that I'd need to leave behind.  
This is obviously a personal item, and it's one that holds a great deal of  
emotional and religious significance."  
  
"You don't find the notion of putting someone's finger inside a statue to be  
somewhat, I don't know, barbaric?"  
  
"It's probably not even real, probably a sculpture of a finger or a monkey  
finger or something like that - the relics inside reliquaries often aren't  
genuine. But that doesn't matter in the least. It doesn't matter what's inside  
the container, it's what's inside the heart." His voice was low and respectful.  
"It's the mystical elements that make a reliquary so special."  
  
"Mr. President, please. Forget the mystical elements. Just forget them. We can't  
accept human remains as a gift, period." He paused. "We also need to find out  
how this thing got into the Ambassador's hands in the first place. It could've  
been stolen from a church in Bulgaria, which would be bad enough, but it could  
also have been stolen from someplace else."  
  
Bartlet frowned. "Why are we so concerned about provenance?"  
  
"Provenance can change everything. Remember the painting we had that turned out  
to have been stolen from a French Jew in the 1930's? It was just chance that we  
managed to return it to its rightful owner without the press getting wind of it.  
How much worse would it be if we had a gift that not only had been stolen but  
also contained human remains?"  
  
"Leo, I take your point about the human remains aspect, I really do. I'm just  
not so sure that's what we have inside here, and even if we did, it's not like  
we can return the finger to its rightful owner. We'd also be sending a pretty  
powerful message to Catholics the world over: your reliquaries are offensive."  
  
"I'm Catholic and I think it's offensive. I think it's barbaric."  
  
"You've used that word already."  
  
"Mr. President--"  
  
"Oh, for crying out loud, Leo, what difference will it make? The guy handed it  
to me in the Oval Office." He lowered his voice when Charlie entered the room.  
"It's not as if there's going to be a big scandal about it."  
  
"Excuse me, sir," Charlie said softly. "CJ Cregg's here."  
  
"Send her in," Bartlet said, placing the reliquary on his desk. "What's up, CJ?"  
  
"Good afternoon, Mr. President, Leo." She came up to them and smiled. "I'm sorry  
to interrupt."  
  
"That's fine. What can we do for you?"  
  
CJ settled her glasses on the end of her nose and consulted her note pad. "This  
is really weird, and I hate to bother you with it, but I got this question a few  
minutes ago at my briefing. Can you tell me anything about the Bulgarian  
Ambassador and his gift to the President?"  
  
***  
  
There was so much work to do, even on a Saturday morning, that lunch was in  
Josh's office instead of the Mess. Josh dipped a french fry in ketchup and held  
it up in front of his mouth, frowning. "You know, in light of what's sitting on  
the President's desk, this is losing its appeal."  
  
Sam laughed and took a bite out of his hamburger. Donna made a face. "That's  
disgusting, Josh."  
  
"Hey, I'm not the one with Hannibal Lecter's midnight snack sitting on his  
desk."  
  
"No, you're the one with the seventeen farm subsidy files sitting on his desk,  
the ones you made your assistant dredge up for you," Donna chided, taking a seat  
next to Sam and unwrapping her sandwich.  
  
Josh looked over the expanse of folders on his desk and sighed. "Yeah, and  
thanks so much for reminding me about how I'll be spending the rest of my day."  
  
"Anyway," Donna continued, "I don't see why we have to do anything. Why not just  
put it in a drawer somewhere and keep our mouths shut?"  
  
"It's not that simple," Sam said, his hand in front of his mouth to disguise the  
fact that he was still chewing. "There's a press photo, plus someone will  
probably leak the the x-ray to make a quick buck, and once there's art we have  
to make a move because the American public will know about it. We're either  
going to have to accept graciously or decline with regrets."  
  
"Well, give it back, then!" Donna demanded, emphasizing her point by stabbing  
the air with her pickle.  
  
"It's not that simple," Josh said with a sigh.  
  
"It's exactly that simple. You can't give someone part of someone else as a  
present. I mean, even Van Gogh only gave the woman his own ear!"  
  
"I understand. I even agree, bizarre as that may seem," Josh said around a  
mouthful of food. "But there are problems if we upset Bulgaria."  
  
"Bigger problems than accepting the body parts of its citizens as gifts?"  
  
"Setting that charming image aside for a few seconds, let's remember that  
they're our staunchest NATO ally in the region."  
  
"Exactly," Sam added. "There's a lot of unrest in Macedonia right now, and the  
entire Balkan situation is about as unstable as usual, so the cooperation of  
Bulgaria is nothing to be sneezed at."  
  
Josh stopped eating and frowned thoughtfully at Sam. "I'm wondering this, too -  
is it possible that the Bulgarians thought this was just a statue? That they  
didn't know anything was inside in the first place? Maybe it was unintentional."  
  
"You want my chips?" Sam asked Donna, handing her the bag as he stood and  
stretched. "I like your optimism, Josh, I really do. I just don't think we have  
that kind of luck. I've got to get to my office - Toby should be back from  
services about now." He went out the door, bumping into CJ. "Hey. Sorry."  
  
"That's all right. Hey, guys."  
  
"Hi. Have you had lunch?" Donna asked.  
  
"In a little while. I just came from the Oval and I wanted to--"  
  
"This is quite something," Josh interrupted, smirking. "Lends a whole new  
meaning to giving someone the finger."  
  
"President's got that joke covered."  
  
"Ah." Josh returned to his lunch, pushing french fries around with disinterest.  
"So what's going to happen?"  
  
"Leo got pretty agitated. He convinced the President to have the FBI take a look  
at the contents, determine what, you know, kind of finger is in there." She  
shuddered. "Those french fries are really gross."  
  
"Thank you." Josh dumped everything into the wastebasket.  
  
"And your arteries will thank you. But that's not why I came in. You know  
Carol's out with the flu, right? Well, I need some help with research, and I  
wanted to ask Donna if she's got some time to spare."  
  
"I think I can pencil you in," Donna said, grinning. "Seriously, I'm happy to  
help. Unless you can think of something you need right away, Josh."  
  
"Nah, I have enough reading material to keep me occupied until the end of time.  
Or at least it'll feel like the end of time."  
  
"I'll check in with you later this afternoon, make sure you're not buried  
alive." Donna rose and followed CJ into the hall.  
  
Josh looked at something on his note pad, then fished through the pile of  
folders, frowning. "Hey, Donna!" he shouted. "I can't find the folder on 897!"  
  
"Oh, sorry, that one's on my desk. In one of the manila envelopes, and they sent  
it to me, not to you. Just go through the stuff, it'll turn up."  
  
"It's gonna be weird, reading your mail!"  
  
"Just make sure the job offers don't get lost in the shuffle, Josh. See you  
later!"  
  
Josh looked at the enormous stack of folders and envelopes on Donna's desk.  
"Could be worse - could be in a blue folder," he mumbled as he started opening  
envelopes one by one. He paused, his eyes widening. "Job offers. Good one,  
Donnatella."  
  
***  
  
Abbey Bartlet held the statue in her hands, turning it around, admiring the  
details on its highly-polished surface. "It's too bad, Jed, but Leo's right,"  
she said softly. "I wish it had been solid, or empty."  
  
"I know, I know." He sat on the loveseat, next to his wife, and took the object  
from her hands. "She was such a great and powerful woman, one of the saints who  
didn't just sit back and let herself be martyred without a fight. I thought he  
gave me this saint because of what we've been going through the last few months.  
And now...this."  
  
"I'm sure his intentions were good." Abbey uncrossed her legs and motioned  
toward Leo's office. "What's he doing in there?"  
  
"He's on hold with the FBI, can you believe that? White House Chief of Staff,  
and he's on hold."  
  
"What's he trying to do?"  
  
"He wants," Jed said through clenched teeth, "to take this apart and get it  
examined."  
  
Abbey regarded her husband for a few moments. "You don't seem too warm about the  
notion."  
  
"It's a religious object, Abbey. We can't just cut it open and demand proof.  
What if we start doing that with all our artifacts the world over? What if we  
demand they give us DNA samples from everything, demand that the Dead Sea  
Scrolls be carbon-dated? Would anything that's part of faith be allowed to  
remain uncategorized, unexamined? Where would it stop?"  
  
"It could very well stop with this. You know as well as I do that these relics  
are often faked. The finger may not even be a real finger, and if it's not then  
we have a little less of a problem than we thought."  
  
Before Bartlet could answer, Leo entered the Oval Office, pausing to take a seat  
in the chair opposite them. "Hello, Abbey."  
  
"Hey, Leo. Looks like someone gave my husband the finger."  
  
"I've used that one already," Bartlet said, rolling his eyes. "So what did the  
FBI guys say?"  
  
"They said a lot of things, including the finger joke. But most important is  
this - they're sending a courier over and they'll take it to their labs at  
Quantico for a full examination. They can't promise when we can see results, but  
they're going to push it through and it shouldn't take more than a day."  
  
They all looked at the statue, at the innocent silver face turned toward heaven.  
  
"Abbey was just saying that the finger might not be Saint Euphemia's, and in  
fact it might not be a finger at all, or at least not a human one. What do you  
think?"  
  
"It's a possibility. These things have been faked before. Our guys at Quantico  
will take a look at it, let us know what we've really got, and we can work  
something out from there. It's going to be okay, especially if the finger turns  
out to be a fake."  
  
"Abbey just said that, too." The President stood up and paced back and forth  
between his desk and the loveseat. "I don't get it. Why would that be in our  
favor? Because now we can say, 'not only did you give us this relic from a human  
saint, but it also turns out that what you gave us was a phony?' I don't exactly  
see how that helps us."  
  
"It'd be the truth, Jed. And the truth can help us make our decisions rationally  
instead of emotionally."  
  
Bartlet walked over to his wife and put his hand on her shoulder. "I know. I  
just wish it didn't have to be like this. And I wish we didn't have to wait."  
  
"We'll know something, probably tomorrow, or Monday for sure." Leo reaffirmed.  
"Just try not to think about it for a while, because there's absolutely nothing  
you can do. The outcome's the outcome, no matter how much you wish it were  
otherwise."  
  
"Or pray for it otherwise." Bartlet frowned and started pacing again.  
  
"Do you really think they'll be upset?" Abbey asked. "Surely, if you explain  
that the United States isn't able to accept human remains--"  
  
"Do I think they'll be upset?" Bartlet leaned against the desk. "They took the  
time to research my favorite saint and got me this magnificent reliquary. They  
brought it all the way to the United States and had it vetted before they gave  
it to me. Plus, I accepted it while people took pictures. You think they'll be  
upset when I give it back and say, 'no thanks?' Because if I were in their  
shoes, I'd be upset. I'd be insulted, affronted, and I'd probably want to pack  
up my things and go home."  
  
"We'll have to play this very carefully, Mr. President," Leo said, his voice  
even and neutral. "I don't deny that this might take...careful handling. But  
it's not something you should stew about right this minute."  
  
"I know. Thanks, Leo." Slowly, with heavy steps, Bartlet went back to the  
loveseat and sat down with his arm around Abbey.  
  
Leo smiled at him. "Sir, I know you don't want to make the call to Kostov. Maybe  
Josh is right and this was accidental. Maybe the Bulgarians will be so  
embarrassed that they'll just whisk this away, then they'll send you something  
else. Maybe the FBI won't find anything unusual, and Kostov will really  
understand the heart of the problem and be gracious about it."  
  
"Yeah, and maybe I'll tap my heels together three times and end up in Oz,"  
Bartlet sighed. "If we're going to rely on luck, then we're completely and  
utterly screwed, my friend, because we haven't exactly had a lot of that to go  
around in recent months."  
  
"So what are you going to do?" Abbey asked.  
  
He looked lovingly at the statue, then back at his wife and best friend. "I  
guess I'm going to have to see what fate dictates to us."  
  
***  
  
Josh continued to hunt for the information he needed. Having dispensed with one  
pile, he started in on another one, wishing he'd brought his coffee with him.  
The first envelope he opened contained a laundry list of amendments to a bill he  
had no intention of working on, the second had something to do with Donna's  
health insurance, while the third, fourth, and fifth held office memoranda that  
made his eyes blur. The sixth puzzled him, because when he reached in he  
extracted a flat blue envelope with a lump in it.  
  
There was a label: "Forensic Evidence. Joshua J. Lyman, May 13, 2000."  
  
"The hell...?"  
  
His thumb brushed something smooth on the reverse of the envelope. He turned it  
over and blanched at what he saw through the clear plastic window.  
  
A bullet.  
  
***   
End 1b/4  
To part 2   
  
  



	3. Reliquary (2/4)

RELIQUARY   
part 2/4  
  
  
***  
  
Toby returned from Sabbath services to find his office full of people: Sam, who  
was sitting behind the desk, along with Ainsley and CJ, who were lounging on the  
sofa. Toby glared at Sam until he relinquished the comfortable leather chair,  
then addressed the group. "Hello, it's nice to see you, and what, exactly, are  
all of you doing in my office?"  
  
"Well, we started to meet in my office," Sam said, taking off his glasses and  
cleaning them on his sleeve, "but you've got better furniture."  
  
"And what was the meeting about?"  
  
"He hasn't heard?" Ainsley asked.  
  
Frowning, Toby turned toward her. "What haven't I heard, and why do I need to  
hear it?"  
  
The two women started to talk at once, but CJ's voice held more authority and  
she took over. "Okay. You know Bulgaria sent a new ambassador, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"And he was being given his credentials this morning, right?"  
  
"Right again, and I'd like it if somebody got 'right' to the point." Toby sat  
down and began to fidget with the pens on his desk as CJ continued.  
  
"Then I'll get right back to it. The ambassador, whose name is Mikhail Arensky,  
brought the President a gift - a statue of a 14th century saint named Euphemia  
of Bleven."  
  
"What, is the statue too big? Is it naked? What's the problem?" Toby asked,  
sounding more annoyed by the second.  
  
"It's not that big," Sam cut in, holding his hands about eight inches apart.  
"Just so."  
  
"It's not the size that matters," CJ said, taking a moment to glare at Sam  
because he was snickering. "The problem is that it's hollow, and the Gift Office  
found out a little late that it contained a relic."  
  
"Wait." Toby set the pens down and leaned forward on his desk. "A relic, like a  
piece of the Shroud of Turin or something?"  
  
"Worse, actually," CJ sighed. "This reliquary, as it's called, contains what the  
X-rays are showing to be a human finger."  
  
"Ah." The corners of his mouth twitched upward. "So someone gave the President  
the finger."  
  
"That joke is so this morning," CJ mumbled.  
  
"But the thing is," Sam broke in, "that surely there's some pretty strong  
language in international law saying you can't give away body parts."  
  
"And I'm arguing that there are probably exemptions for articles that are used  
for religious purposes," Ainsley added as she looked at her empty coffee cup and  
reached for Sam's instead.  
  
Sam snatched it away. "Nice try."  
  
"The coffee or the explanation?"  
  
"For the love of God, will you two shut up?" Toby barked. "This is outrageous!  
You can't use body parts as a gift, no matter whether you're intending to  
worship them or, I don't know, pickle them. It's not done in the civilized  
world!"  
  
"I think what Ainsley means," Sam said as he rescued his coffee, "is that the  
Constitutional right to freedom of religion may supersede the indignation of the  
American public, or possibly even international law."  
  
Toby let out a low groan of rage. "Good, then. So I can say that carving up  
Republicans is part of my religion and offer bits of you to my elected  
officials, and no one can touch me?"  
  
Ainsley shook her head. "Not at all. You'd have to kill me and that's the part  
that's illegal. But this...thing...is probably six hundred years old. The  
person's already dead and has been for a long time - and that's only an issue if  
the finger is real, which we don't know for sure as of this moment. But the  
point is that we can't tell people to turn over religious artifacts that are  
already here."  
  
"There's a big difference between my prayer shawl and someone's finger."  
  
"There's also a big difference between smearing a baby's head with holy water  
and cutting off part of his penis. Do you want the government interfering with  
that?"  
  
The room became still. Sam looked down at the floor. CJ looked apprehensively at  
Toby, who made a soft humming noise and turned his head toward the bulletin  
board for a moment. "I think," he said in a dangerously neutral tone, "that this  
conversation has ended."  
  
Ainsley's tone was conciliatory. "Toby, I know that's part of your religion and  
I, personally, don't have a problem with men being circumcised. But you know  
that there's a lot of controversy about the procedure being performed on boys  
without their knowledge or consent, and that even some Jews are refusing--"  
  
"Ainsley." Sam spoke in a near-whisper.  
  
Ainsley stood up, crestfallen. "I've obviously stepped over a boundary, here,  
and I'm terribly sorry."  
  
Toby took a deep breath as CJ nodded at him. "It's all right. It's just...I just  
got back from Temple and now we're talking about severed body parts, and I'm..."  
He managed to bestow a flicker of a smile on her. "Don't worry about it."  
  
She let out a sigh of relief. "I agree with you in principle, Toby. But I'm  
telling you that constitutionally the reliquary isn't a problem."  
  
"Maybe not, but from the standpoint of public perception it's going to be a  
nightmare," CJ put in.  
  
"And from the standpoint of my day, it's giving me a headache. Something that's  
not going to be ameliorated in any way by the sudden appearance of Josh." Toby  
rubbed his forehead with the side of his index finger. "Have you come to give us  
your views on the subject?"  
  
Josh didn't appear to have heard the question. He leaned into the office, his  
hands on either side of the doorway, his face drawn and flushed. "CJ, where's  
Donna?"  
  
CJ squinted up at him over the rims of her glasses. "I sent her down to the  
basement office with some briefing books so she could read in peace in quiet.  
Want me to have someone go get her?"  
  
"Nah." Josh propelled himself off the door frame with a sharp movement. "I'm  
gonna go get her myself."  
  
"Speaking of basement office," Ainsley said softly, "I should get going. Thanks  
for the coffee, Sam."  
  
"I'll walk you down. Toby, we're supposed to check in with Leo around four,  
about the speech for the D.N.C."  
  
"I'm on it, thanks." He paused while Sam and Ainsley left the room, then turned  
to CJ. She was on her feet, looking down at him with concern. "What?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're giving me that look. What?"  
  
"I have a look?"  
  
"CJ!"  
  
She perched on the edge of his desk. "That outburst just now?"  
  
"That was an outburst?"  
  
"Toby." She wrinkled her nose at him. "That's not like you. What's the matter?"  
  
He tilted his head to one side, watching her in silence for a few seconds. "It's  
just some misplaced annoyance. I've been...the President and I..."  
  
"He brought you that chess set and you guys played almost all night long. You  
said things were better between you."  
  
"They are. I just have--"  
  
The phone cut him off, and when he answered he was almost relieved to discover  
that this conversation would last long enough to make CJ return to her own  
office.  
  
***  
  
Donna didn't look up when she heard the door open. She didn't need to, because  
the footsteps could not have been more familiar. "Josh, I have to tell you that  
the seating protocol for state dinners held on ships in international waters is  
even less interesting than farm subsidies."  
  
He didn't answer. She heard him come down the stairs and saw his shadow over the  
book she was reading. His breathing was shallow and fast.  
  
"Josh? Did you run down here?" she asked, turning a page with distaste. "Did you  
get so befuddled that you couldn't wait for--"  
  
His hand moved so fast that she didn't see what was landing on the table until  
it hit the wood with enough force to make her jump in her seat. She looked up at  
his face, at an expression she'd never seen in all their years of bickering and  
bantering.  
  
"Josh?"  
  
His eyes flashed with rage and his posture was stiff as he pointed to the table.  
  
Donna followed his line of sight. As she recognized the envelope she felt a  
clamminess, a dizziness creeping up into her head. "Oh," she whispered.  
  
"Oh? That's all you can say to me?" It was an explosion.  
  
"I...I don't know what to say." She clasped her hands together tightly, trying  
to keep them steady.  
  
Josh picked up the envelope again and held it close to her face. His hand was  
sweating and still smelled faintly like onions and well-done beef. "This isn't a  
pencil I left lying around somewhere, this isn't something I dropped and forgot  
about. Do you know where this was?"  
  
"Josh..."  
  
"Do you know where this was?" he shouted.  
  
Without realizing it, Donna found herself on her feet, toe-to-toe with Josh. Her  
voice was strident. "I know where it was! And you know what else? I know where I  
was when they were taking it out of you!"  
  
He ripped the envelope open and pressed the bullet against his chest. "It was  
inside my body! Look at it, it went in right here! Do you know where it ended  
up?"  
  
This can't be happening, Donna thought as her vision swam and she saw Josh's  
furious eyes multiplied by four. "It collapsed your lung," she said weakly.  
  
"It was next to my heart!" Josh stopped as if he could hear something besides  
his outraged scream. Donna wondered if he heard sirens. Josh's hand clenched  
around the bullet. "It was next to my heart," he said, softer, blinking rapidly.  
  
"I'm sorry," Donna was barely able to say. "Ron Butterfield got it from the lab  
and gave it to me, and I meant to give it to you, but you were...I didn't know  
how you'd..." Tears spilled down her face, stinging her cheeks, offering no  
relief from the pain that radiated through her whole body.  
  
"When?"  
  
"When, what?"  
  
"When did he give it to you?"  
  
Donna paused, steeling herself against whatever was about to happen. She closed  
her eyes. "Six weeks after Rosslyn."  
  
Josh's mouth tightened in a hard, angry line. He shoved the bullet into his  
pocket and stalked up the stairs. At the landing, just before he put his hand on  
the doorknob, he stopped and spoke without looking at her.  
  
"Finish whatever it is that CJ needs, then just get your stuff and go home."  
  
Donna choked back a sob. "You're...firing me?"  
  
She remembered a time when he'd done so repeatedly and she'd been able to  
counter with "impervious." This wasn't the same thing. Not with this long, heavy  
silence between them.  
  
Josh's hand went into his pocket and his shoulders slumped as he exhaled. "No,"  
he said, still looking at the door. "I just can't be around you right now."  
  
Through a haze of tears Donna watched him leave. She didn't sit down, didn't  
pick up the briefing book, just stood there with one hand over her mouth and the  
other over her heart.  
  
***  
  
Bartlet came to the Oval Office after church the next morning, the loosening of  
his tie the only concession he made to the day. Taking a seat at his desk, he  
began to rifle through some leather-bound books, shaking his head and sighing.  
"Charlie," he called, and he beckoned his aide into the office.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"I need you to set up a call for me. I need you to get me the Pope."  
  
Charlie didn't flinch. "I'll get right on that, Mr. President. Do you want to  
take the call here, or in the Residence?"  
  
Bartlet removed his glasses and glared at Charlie. "Why do you think this might  
be a call I'd need to make from the Residence?"  
  
With the easy grace of someone used to all the moods of the President, Charlie  
responded, "Well, sir, I don't know if you're going to ask him about Vatican  
policy or about that finger someone gave you."  
  
"Charlie," Bartlet groaned, "I swear, if I have to listen to that joke one more  
time..."  
  
"I wasn't joking, sir," Charlie said, but the grin he was trying to suppress  
betrayed him. Bartlet chuckled and waved him away.  
  
"Never mind, Charlie, it was a stupid idea. I think I'm just trying to kill time  
until Leo gets back."  
  
"Should I have Toby come in for a chess match, Mr. President?"  
  
"Nah. He's my communications director, not my nanny. Although now I have a  
mental image of him as Mary Poppins that is certainly brightening my day. No,  
that'll be all, Charlie, so go on home."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. President."  
  
Bartlet went through some of the files that had been left for him, but he  
couldn't concentrate on anything but the blue box, now empty, that sat on the  
edge of his desk. He picked it up, running his fingers around the impression the  
reliquary had made in the velvet lining, lost in thought.  
  
He didn't know how much time passed before he heard a knock on the door that  
separated his office from Leo's. "Yeah, Leo, come in."  
  
Leo buttoned his jacket as he walked over to the desk. "Good afternoon, Mr.  
President."  
  
"It's afternoon?"  
  
"It's..." He looked at his watch, "Yep, it's afternoon. One-thirty."  
  
"Leo, I've been thinking. Let's not do this. Let's not open the reliquary. I  
don't want it to happen."  
  
"It's done, Mr. President," Leo said gently. "You did the right thing."  
  
Bartlet sat down behind his desk, indicating the various books in front of him.  
"I read and read and read, but I couldn't find anything the Church says about  
what to do in a case like this. I took that as a sign that I shouldn't do  
anything."  
  
"Maybe it's a sign that this is a matter for the State rather than the Church,  
Mr. President." Leo paused. "I just got off the phone with one of the forensic  
pathologists from Quantico. She said they're sending the results by courier. It  
should be here any minute. She also said that Abbey might want to see some of  
the contents since she's got the background to understand what she's looking  
at."  
  
"Yeah." Bartlet spent a few moments focusing his eyes on Leo. "I should call  
her."  
  
"I already did. She's going to meet the courier in the lobby."  
  
"Thanks." He walked around to the loveseat and motioned for Leo to sit opposite  
him. "We might as well make ourselves comfortable."  
  
They sat in silence until Abbey entered with a large manila envelope in her  
hand. "Oh, good, it's just the three of us," she said, crossing over and giving  
her husband a kiss on the cheek before sitting down. "I was reading this on the  
way. The pathologist was very, very thorough and I concur with her findings.  
This finger is definitely human, but also definitely not from the fourteenth  
century."  
  
"So it's not genuine - but that doesn't make it any easier, you know. Now we  
have to say "thanks for the fake artifact, but no thanks," so we're really not  
any better off than we were before," Bartlet groused.  
  
"Well, at least we know what we're dealing with, and that's a start in figuring  
out what to do. But I'm afraid there's something that's going to make this even  
more complicated.  
  
"How is that possible?" Bartlet asked, looking up at the ceiling in  
exasperation.  
  
"I've looked at the x-rays and the pathologist's photographs, and I've read her  
report, and as I said earlier, I think she's right in her assessment."  
  
"Abbey, if you don't, and I mean right now, tell Leo and me what you're talking  
about--"  
  
"When I say the finger's not from the 14th century, Jed, I don't mean that it's  
something from Madame Tussaud's. It's a real finger, it's just not a real, old  
finger. It's recent."  
  
Bartlet could feel Leo holding his breath, and his own pulse began to race.  
"Abbey..."  
  
"How recent?" Leo asked.  
  
Abbey held up the paperwork with a resigned sigh. "No more than three months."  
  
***   
End part 2/4   
To Part 3   
  



	4. Reliquary (3/4)

RELIQUARY   
Part 3/4   
  
***  
  
"I can read you the forensics report, if you'd like," Abbey offered, holding up  
the thick sheaf of paper.  
  
"Dear God, please don't," Leo said, resting his head on the back of the chair.  
  
Grimacing, Bartlet looked over Abbey's shoulder. "I second that. Can you give us  
a summary that doesn't go into too many of the details about which Leo, here, is  
squeamish?"  
  
Abbey settled her glasses on the bridge of her nose and scanned the pages for  
pertinent information. "The finger appears to have been amputated post-mortem,  
probably within thirty-six hours of the death. Time of death is virtually  
impossible to pinpoint but it's placed as being sometime in the last four to  
six weeks."  
  
"Wait a second," Bartlet interrupted. "If this was a human finger that was only  
a month or so old, then wouldn't we have - forgive me, but wouldn't we have  
smelled it?"  
  
"From the condition of the finger and the tissue samples, it appears to have  
been flash-frozen. It was pretty much dessicated but they were able to get a  
clean fingerprint. And this is the part you're really not going to like."  
  
"What?" Leo's voice was dry.  
  
"The lab's fingerprint base identifies it as the right index finger of one Alex  
Crosby of the United States Air Force."  
  
Bartlet and Leo exchanged alarmed glances. "Leo, I've heard that name."  
  
Leo closed his eyes as if trying to awaken a memory. "Yes, we talked about this  
at a security briefing about seven weeks ago. Crosby went on a routine  
reconnaissance mission over Serbia but he never returned. The Serbian government  
denied all knowledge of his whereabouts, although they were very open with the  
search and rescue crews and allowed them free access to wherever they wanted to  
search. But his body was never found. Neither was the plane. Both just  
disappeared.."  
  
"Well, we found part of it," Bartlet said, his eyes darkening in anger. "Leo,  
this was from one of ours. That young man's family has been going mad for almost  
two months, not knowing what happened to him, and we've got to tell them that we  
know he's dead but all we recovered was one finger?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Crap." Bartlet got up and paced back and forth between Abbey and the desk.  
"This is crap, Leo."  
  
"We'll get Crosby's records and have someone tell Fitz so he can go through  
channels. It'll be taken care of as quickly and expediently as possible."  
  
"What about the reliquary?"  
  
Leo stared at him in disbelief. "You can't possibly still expect to keep--"  
  
"No, no. I...couldn't. Not now." He leaned against the desk. "It's just that we  
keep adding layers to the diplomatic nightmare. Not only will we have to explain  
why we had a vetted gift opened and tested, but we'll also have to demand the  
return of Crosby's remains and a full account of the circumstances surrounding  
his death."  
  
"And since he disappeared over Serbia, we have to consider that the reliquary  
was appropriated illegally," Leo said with a grimace. "We've got a whole new  
ball game: not just the interesting dilemma of finding a way to return a gift  
without offending the nation, but also to determine if international law's been  
broken."  
  
"All I know for sure, Leo, is that we have one day in which we have to decide  
how best to piss off a country that almost singlehandedly repelled Russia's  
incursion into Southeastern Europe. For that, I'd like to have longer than a  
day." Bartlet paused, shaking his head. "No, what I really want is to get  
Arensky's ass in here right this minute and hold him up by his toenails until he  
talks."  
  
"He may not know anything, Jed," Abbey said soothingly. "It's entirely possible  
that someone higher up then he is handed him a box and said, 'take this to  
Washington and give it to the President.' Talk to him, sure, but let's not  
string him up until we know he's responsible."  
  
"Should we get a translator?" Bartlet asked. "How good is Arensky's English?"  
  
"According to his file, he went to Oxford. I don't think language will be a  
barrier," Leo said as he started toward his office. "Let me get on the phone to  
Fitz. Then I'll have Toby get involved with notifying the family and then he can  
work with CJ on the press release."  
  
"I want to talk to the family," Bartlet said.  
  
"I'll have Toby put the call through to you later, after you've had a chance to  
meet with Arensky. Meanwhile, don't spend too much time working up a good head  
of anger."  
  
"Why not?" Bartlet thundered. "They killed one of our guys, Leo, and they maimed  
the body. Then they gave part of this young man who went into the armed services  
to protect and defend this country of which I am the leader--they gave it to me  
as a gift!" He slammed his fist on the desk so hard that the picture frames  
rattled.  
  
"I agree that this was a heinous act, Mr. President. There will be a full  
accounting of Lieutenant Crosby's death, and we'll get his remains sent to us.  
We may have to hold some feet to the fire to get it done, but first we have to  
know whose feet we're talking about."  
  
Bartlet closed his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'm gonna go do...something.  
You'll come by when you get information?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Leo said as he walked slowly to his office and closed the door.  
  
"Jed," Abbey said as she rose and stood next to her husband, "he's flown in a  
war. He's known what it's like to lose someone and never really know. He'll do a  
job."  
  
"He will," Bartlet acknowledged. He pulled Abbey close, pressing his cheek  
against her hair. "What're you going to do with the rest of your day?"  
  
She pulled away, smiling at him. "I thought I'd see if the leader of the free  
world might like some company while he waits."  
  
Bartlet kissed her, then picked up his glasses and a blue folder and took his  
seat behind the desk. "He would, Abbey. He would."  
  
***  
  
Toby walked into CJ's office without knocking. "I just got off the phone with  
two guys from the Air Force, and they'll fax you everything you need for the  
releases and the briefings. They need a while to pick up the records, but  
they'll get back to us as soon as they can." CJ, who was typing with slow,  
precise movements, just nodded at him. "Got a touch of carpal tunnel, there,  
CJ?"  
  
"No. Sorry. I was distracted." She removed her glasses and swiveled the chair  
around so she was facing Toby. "I keep thinking."  
  
"That's always your first mistake."  
  
"Seriously. You dropped a pretty big anvil on Ainsley yesterday."  
  
Toby sat on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. "What she  
should do is to stop equating Jewish customs with the desecration of the dead.  
There's a world of difference between a bris and mutilating a corpse."  
  
"I agree that her choice of comparison was unfortunate, but your reaction was  
pretty puzzling." She got up and sat beside him, careful not to force him to  
meet her eyes. "It seemed to pull a trigger for you, and that trigger doesn't  
get pulled too easily."  
  
"Yeah." His tone was glum. "You think I should apologize to her?"  
  
"Frankly, I think you should genuinely accept her apology so that we can move  
on. But what I'd really like is to find out why you were so tightly wound in the  
first place." She waited for an answer. "Toby, you've been like this since Iowa,  
and it's only recently begun to improve. Is there anything you're not telling  
me?"  
  
"There's a lot I'm not telling you, CJ, and what you should infer from that is  
that I'm not telling you things because you don't need to know them!"  
  
"Okay--that, right now?" She put her hand on his shoulder. "Talk."  
  
Toby sighed. At last he turned around to look at her, his eyes ringed with dark  
shadows. "There was a problem when we got back from Iowa."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I went to see the President. I was pretty annoyed with his non-response to  
Ritchie's comment, so I went to see him, and one thing turned into another, and  
I ended up saying he backs off of issues because he needs to win elections." He  
paused. "Then I brought up some stuff about his father."  
  
"You brought up...never mind." CJ pinched the bridge of her nose, squinting.  
  
"We didn't talk for a while, afterwards. And he took me off the trip to India."  
  
"Yeah. I remember wondering about that. But how does it relate to Ainsley?"  
  
"It doesn't. But the President - while he and I were fighting - said something.  
He said...something. And it's been rankling ever since. He made a comment about  
what happens in a Brooklyn shrink's office."  
  
"He thinks you need therapy?" She cocked her head at him. "Because, I must  
say..."  
  
"CJ," Toby said sharply. "It wasn't that he said shrink. It's that he said  
Brooklyn. And it's not the first time he's made comments about my being Jewish."  
  
"Tell me this isn't going where I think it's going," CJ said with apprehension.  
  
"I'm not saying it's something that consumes his every waking moment, CJ, but  
it's made me wonder." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Do you suppose it's  
possible that this man, this man for whom I'd lay down my life, might harbor  
some anti-Semitism?"  
  
"No," CJ declared, aghast, standing up and hovering over Toby with her hands on  
her hips.  
  
Toby watched her in silence for a moment, then he sighed. "I was hoping for  
something along the lines of a discussion."  
  
"You're not going to get one, Toby. I absolutely can not believe you'd say  
something like that! I can't believe you'd...believe that!"  
  
"I don't want to believe it, either, but there are lots of religions out there  
that aren't too crazy about Jews, and historically the Catholic Church--"  
  
"Of which I'm a member!"  
  
"In the most loosely-interpreted sense of the word."  
  
"Hey!" she cried, standing a little straighter.  
  
"CJ, I spent a lot of my childhood years fending off rock-throwing parochial  
school kids who screamed that I was going to Hell for killing their lord. You  
aren't like them. You probably even never met a Jew until you moved from Ohio to  
California, and most of those were Jew Lites with one-third less dogma than East  
Coast Jews, so the first one to really piss you off was probably me."  
  
"I get pissed at you for being sanctimonious, Toby," CJ shouted. "I get pissed  
at you for being glib, elitist, sexist, short-tempered, and...and..." She waved  
her hands in the air.  
  
"Erudite?" Toby supplied.  
  
She glared at him. "I was going to say smart-assed. I can't imagine why I'd  
choose that term."  
  
Toby smiled and rubbed his beard between his thumb and forefinger. "Me neither."  
  
"But my point is, I don't get pissed at you for being Jewish. And neither does  
the President. God, Toby, he gave you that chess set - the Prime Minister said  
it had always been her favorite. That one was her favorite, and instead of  
keeping it for himself the President gave it to you. Why do you think he chose  
you above everyone else?"  
  
"I'm a Chosen Person, CJ." He didn't move fast enough to avoid her hands shoving  
against his chest, and it knocked him a little off balance.  
  
"Seriously, you should talk to him," CJ said, smoothing the place where she had  
just pushed him. "You can't let this fester. And think of something nice to say  
to Ainsley, while you're on your way out."  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Toby feigned a salute, then turned and walked away while CJ went  
back to the grim task of encapsulating the brief life of Lieutenant Alex Crosby.  
  
***  
  
Sam knocked on Josh's open door and saw that he was on the phone. Josh mouthed  
the word "Amy" to Sam, then motioned for him to come in as he spoke into the  
receiver. "Yeah, it turns out that the finger's not only human but that it's  
nowhere near old enough to have been in the reliquary since the 14th century."  
He paused, then grinned at Sam. "She just made the finger joke."  
  
"Is it catching, or something? Sam chuckled and raised his voice so Amy could  
hear. "Twenty-four people have come up with that joke before you, Amy."  
  
Josh listened to Amy's response, then raised his eyebrows.  
  
"What did she say? Sam asked.  
  
"She...suggested some recreational activity for you involving your head and..."  
  
"Yeah. I get it."  
  
Josh turned his attention back to the phone. "Listen, Sam and I have some actual  
governing to do in the next few hours. I'll catch you at Murphy's, sevenish.  
Hey, that's a good idea. I'll ask them. Thanks. Bye."  
  
"Ask what?" Sam inquired as Josh hung up the phone and put his feet up on the  
desk.  
  
"We're going out for dinner, and she'd like you guys to come, too."  
  
"Sounds good. I'd like to relax. It's just awful, about the pilot. That someone  
could do such a thing."  
  
"I know." Josh rubbed his eyes.  
  
"Are you okay?" Sam asked. "You look a little tired."  
  
"I didn't sleep much last night." Josh made a wry face at Sam's curious  
expression. "No, not like that. It's the reliquary, and the farm subsidies bill,  
and...some other stuff."  
  
"Okay." Sam didn't press the subject. As he stood up to leave, Donna came in  
with two folders. "Hi, Donna."  
  
"Hi, Sam," she replied without really looking at him. She placed the folders on  
Josh's desk as gingerly as if they might explode. Josh didn't thank her or look  
at her. She paused for a moment, then straightened her shoulders and started to  
leave.  
  
Sam caught her attention. "Hey, Donna, we're going to get together at--"  
  
"She's busy, Sam." Josh interrupted while sorting through the contents of one of  
the folders.  
  
Sam frowned. Without saying anything else to Josh, he walked into the bullpen  
and stopped by Donna's desk. "Donna?"  
  
"I don't want to talk right now."  
  
"I don't care. I'm not too crazy about that demonstration I just saw in there."  
  
Donna bowed her head. "It's nothing, Sam. Leave it."  
  
"What was with 'She's busy,' and not even looking at you when you came in? Even  
Josh isn't usually that self-absorbed." He sat on his heels and covered her hand  
with his, wincing when he saw a tear splash on the desk. "What's wrong?"  
  
Leaning over with her head on her folded arms, Donna said, "I had him look on my  
desk for the envelope with the stuff about the 897. I forgot that I had  
the...other thing sitting there. And he found it."  
  
"Oh, God." Sam swallowed and moved his hand to Donna's back, stroking gently.  
"Did you tell him why?"  
  
"He was so angry, Sam. I've never seen him like that."  
  
"Donna! No wonder he's so upset. Why don't you just tell him--?"  
  
"Is there some reason you're keeping my assistant from her duties?" Josh asked  
as he walked up with one of the folders in his hand.  
  
"Yeah, and I'd like to talk to you about that," Sam asked, rising and scowling  
at Josh's cold expression.  
  
"I don't have time. Donna, there's a page missing from this. Check the fax  
machine and get it to me in the next two minutes." With that uncharitable  
statement, Josh turned and stalked back into his office, slamming the door  
behind him.  
  
Sam stared at the closed door. "It was a mistake not to tell him," he said  
without looking at Donna, "so I'm going to."  
  
"Sam." Donna bolted upright and grabbed Sam's arm, her fingers pressing deeply  
into his wrist. "Please, Sam. Just...don't."  
  
"Are you kidding? After the way he talked to you? I'm going in there," he  
insisted.  
  
"And I'm asking you not to. I won't let you, Sam, I'm sorry, but I sat up all  
night and thought about it and I won't let him do this to you or anyone else."  
She tugged harder and he turned around, his heart sinking when he took in the  
sight of her wan face and red-rimmed eyes.  
  
"Okay." He pulled her to him and held her close. "I'm so sorry this happened."  
  
"He'll get over it."  
  
"Yeah." Sam moved away, watching for a moment as Donna made her way to the fax  
machine. "But I won't." He took off for CJ's office with long strides, his head  
down, so lost in thought that he almost passed her doorway without stopping.  
  
"Hey, Sam," she greeted him while making a few notes in the margin of her legal  
pad. "I'm trying to work out the details for the press release and Toby's  
getting in contact with Crosby's family. What're you doing?"  
  
"We need to talk." Sam closed the door behind him and CJ regarded him with  
alarm. "Josh found the bullet on Donna's desk."  
  
"Did she tell him--"  
  
"She didn't say anything. Evidently he got really angry at her, and it's  
spilling over into work. I offered to talk to him but she said no." He paused.  
"So. What do I do?"  
  
"Sam, I think you've pretty much answered your own question. Donna said not to  
talk to him, and she knows him pretty well so I'd say we follow her lead."  
  
"She didn't say 'don't talk to him until he calms down.' She doesn't want Josh  
to know, period. You need to call her into your office, maybe ask her some  
stuff about the notes she took. I'll wait until she's out of the bullpen and  
then I'll talk to Josh."  
  
"If Donna said she didn't want you to--"  
  
Sam shook his head as he interrupted her. "You didn't see her, CJ." He swallowed  
and shook his head again. "You didn't see her eyes."  
  
CJ sighed and began dialing the phone. "I'm doing this against my better--Donna?  
CJ. Listen, can you come by and help me decipher your notes? Thanks." When she  
was done, she looked at Sam again. "I think she wants to fall on the sword."  
  
"And you know what?" he replied as he walked toward the door. "I'm not going to  
let her do it."  
  
***   
End part 3/4  
To part 4  
  



	5. Reliquary (4/4)

RELIQUARY   
part 4/4   
  
***  
  
Josh heard his office door open. Glancing up from his papers, he saw Sam  
striding toward him with a determined look on his face. "Sam, I don't have  
time--"  
  
The door slammed. Josh blinked the graininess out of his eyes and looked up. "I  
don't have time," he repeated.  
  
"I don't give a damn if you have time." Sam's voice was tight, his words  
clipped. "I'm going to talk to you and you are going to sit still and listen to  
me."  
  
"No. I'm not, actually." Josh rose and headed for the side door, but Sam stepped  
in front of him. "Get out of my way, Sam."  
  
"Make me."  
  
Josh snickered. "What is this, third grade?"  
  
"I don't know, Josh. You tell me." Sam stayed in the same place, arms folded  
over his chest, staring Josh down. "Because that's the level of behavior you  
exhibited in that...that scene you put on for my benefit. So you're going to sit  
down, and I'm going to sit down, and we're going to talk about what happened."  
  
"Donna," Josh said, rubbing a sore spot at the small of his back, "is not going  
to be the subject of any conversation you and I have."  
  
"No, she's not," Sam said, surprising Josh. "We're going to talk about a bullet.  
So sit down."  
  
Sam sat down in the nearest chair. After a few moments Josh dropped into his own  
chair and sullenly motioned for Sam to begin.  
  
"Right after the shooting, the ballistics experts wanted to know which gun fired  
the shot that hit you and which one fired the shot that hit the President. The  
bullets were sent directly from the hospital to Quantico. They were matched with  
the guns that were found by the shooters' bodies, and then the reports - and the  
bullets - were sent to Ron Butterfield. Ron met with the senior staff about six  
weeks after the shooting to give us the details."  
  
"A Desert Eagle," Josh said, looking up at the ceiling, his voice strained. "The  
kid's name was Kevin Eldridge. He was dead within nine seconds of the time he  
shot me."  
  
"So, that much you knew."  
  
"Yeah," Josh whispered.  
  
Sam's demeanor became gentler. "You were still recuperating and Donna was taking  
your meetings, so she was there that day. Ron gave the President's bullet to  
Leo. He gave your bullet to Donna."  
  
"She should've given it to me," Josh said, a trace of hostility leaking back  
into his tone.  
  
"She meant to, when you came back to work. But you started acting strangely, and  
then there was Christmas..." Sam trailed off, and Josh saw the pain in Sam's  
eyes as they both recalled how close Josh had come to spinning completely out of  
control.  
  
"All of that happened a year ago," Josh said. "She's had that bullet on her desk  
all this time?"  
  
"No. I had it for a while."  
  
Josh stared uncomprehendingly at him. "You had it?"  
  
"Remember last spring, when I found out about that woman my dad had been keeping  
for most of my life?"  
  
"Yeah," Josh said, trying to make some sort of connection in his head but to no  
avail.  
  
"I was pretty freaked out, as you may recall, and I was feeling very sorry for  
myself. So sorry for myself that I almost screwed up the thing with Donna's  
friend - what's her name?"  
  
"Stephanie Gault."  
  
"Yes." Sam punctuated the word in the air with one finger. "A few days after  
that, Donna came up to me in the Mess and handed me the envelope. She didn't say  
anything, just put it in my hands and walked away. And it turned me around,  
Josh."  
  
Josh was stunned. He folded his hands and looked at Sam, waiting in bewildered  
silence for him to continue.  
  
"I had it for a long time. By the time I felt better about my dad, the M.S.  
thing started up and I used to take that envelope out of my desk every time I  
wanted to quit, every time I wanted to go into the Oval Office and scream my  
lungs out. But then there was the thing with Haiti, and I gave it to CJ."  
  
"CJ," Josh repeated. "She gave it back to Donna?"  
  
"Oh, it's made the rounds." Sam's posture relaxed and he spoke earnestly and  
without reservation. "When Charlie was getting hounded about taking immunity and  
he was about to snap, CJ gave the bullet to him. A few weeks ago, when Toby was  
having problems with the President--"  
  
"Charlie gave it to him." Josh closed his eyes. Remorse started to build, taking  
his breath away. "How did Donna end up with it?"  
  
"I thought you didn't want to talk about Donna," Sam said archly.  
  
"I don't." He sounded insincere, even to himself. "Never mind. Just tell me."  
  
"Ginger found out that Donna broke up with..." Sam paused, unsure whether to  
bring up the name.  
  
"Cliff," Josh breathed. He turned his head toward the door and frowned. "She  
never said anything."  
  
"I can't imagine that she would. You're famous for giving her a hard time about  
her personal life." Sam waited for Josh to slump back in his chair before he  
returned to the original subject. "The thing is that whenever one of us is  
having a rough time, someone sends the bullet in a plain manila envelope. We all  
need that reminder sometimes," he said, his voice quavering a little. "We need  
to be reminded of how much we could have lost."  
  
"It was...next to my heart," Josh whispered.  
  
Sam stood up and smiled gently at Josh. "We knew that. That's why it's so  
important to us. It's... it's our relic." He walked quietly to the door and  
opened it. "Oh. Just in case you're interested - Donna's with CJ."  
  
Josh closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing as he swiveled back and  
forth in his chair. His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the top of his  
desk, faster and faster, and all at once he pulled himself upright and sprinted  
toward CJ's office.  
  
***  
  
"Thank you for giving me this moment, Mr. President," Toby said as Charlie  
closed the door behind him.  
  
"I need some respite from the events of the last day or so," Bartlet said,  
offering Toby a seat. "Lieutenant Crosby's commanding officer has notified the  
family. Meanwhile, Ambassador Arensky's been informed of the contents of the  
reliquary and he should be here in a few minutes. What do you think is going to  
happen next?"  
  
"Well, sir, we won't know anything for sure until he talks to us. That said, I'm  
convinced that we'll get a full accounting of Lieutenant Crosby's death, and  
that his remains will be sent back to us."  
  
"That's almost verbatim what Leo said to me."  
  
"I'm extraordinary that way, Mr. President."  
  
Bartlet's smile didn't last long. "So what can I do for you, Toby?"  
  
"I'd like an answer to, well, a religious question, sir."  
  
"Really." Bartlet leaned toward him, his eyes widening.  
  
Toby looked at his shoes and twisted his hands together several times. "You're a  
practicing Catholic."  
  
"Yes, and I hope to be good enough to play Carnegie Hall someday." He paused.  
"What're you getting at?"  
  
"I'm not sure, exactly," Toby began, stilling his hands. "I guess the question  
is this: do you think I'm going to Hell?"  
  
"On general principles?"  
  
"Because I'm Jewish."  
  
Bartlet looked surprised. "Well, not so much as because you're Jewish as that  
you're not Catholic. I mean, to be fair, there are still some Catholics who  
think Sam's going to Hell, too."  
  
"Is that Catholics in general, or you in particular, sir?"  
  
There were a few silent moments before the President said anything. "Toby, there  
are parts of my religion that trouble me - and that's one of them. I believe in  
good works. I believe in God. I also believe that the combination of the two is  
what determines our ultimate fate. Does that answer your question?"  
  
"Mostly." Toby looked away, acutely uncomfortable. "There's one other thing."  
  
"I was afraid of that," Bartlet muttered. "What?"  
  
"Do you think it's possible that some of the...friction between us is because  
I'm Jewish?"  
  
"Is that really what you think of me?" Bartlet asked, sounding dismayed.  
  
Toby shrugged, glancing over to the photographs on the President's desk. "I  
don't want to think that, sir."  
  
"Well, stop thinking it right now, because you're way, way off base." Bartlet  
let his breath out slowly. "I'm not going to deny that there isn't anti-Semitism  
in New England, Toby, because you're a smart man and you know better. I'm also  
not going to deny that, once in a while, some long-buried and thoroughly wrong  
childhood impressions might surface - but only when you're being difficult."  
  
"So it's rare," Toby offered, trying to lighten the mood.  
  
"Rare, yes. Like when the sun rises in the east," was Bartlet's quick retort.  
"But seriously, I don't think that's the source at all. It's not that we're so  
different from one another - it's that we're so alike." He got up and went to  
the bar, pouring glasses of bourbon for himself and Toby. "I think, sometimes,  
that it's not my father's good will I crave so much as yours."  
  
Toby had trouble catching his breath. "I think I'll take that drink now, sir, if  
you don't mind." When the President returned and handed him a glass, Toby's  
hands shook slightly and the tinkling of the ice cubes was the only sound in the  
room.  
  
Bartlet resumed the conversation, still standing next to Toby's chair. "I  
studied some Talmud, you know, when I was at Notre Dame. There's a lot of good  
advice in there, advice I take very seriously. The Talmud says to find yourself  
a teacher." He nodded in the direction of Leo's office.  
  
The warmth of the alcohol loosened the tension, and Toby spoke from his heart.  
"I hardly think you could find a better one, Mr. President."  
  
"Damn straight. And the Talmud also says to find yourself a friend."  
  
It took a moment for Toby to realize that the President was extending his hand.  
Toby fumbled with the glass as he stood up, trying to set it down and wipe his  
hand at the same time but managing to do neither. "I'm...here, just a minute..."  
Finally he found a home for the glass and he took Bartlet's hand, feeling the  
warm, confident grasp that lingered longer than a normal handshake. When he  
looked down, he saw pride and affection in Bartlet's eyes, things that had been  
painfully absent from their relationship in the year since Toby had first heard  
the words "multiple sclerosis."  
  
Just as Toby began to find his voice, Charlie knocked on the door and said that  
Mikhail Arensky was waiting.  
  
"Give me a moment, Charlie, would you, then send him in. Oh, and ask Leo to join  
us." Bartlet released Toby's hand and reached up to squeeze his shoulder. "If  
you try not to be difficult, Toby, then I'll try to keep the demons of my New  
Hampshire upbringing at bay. Because I meant what I said just now."  
  
Arensky walked into the room carrying a large attaché case. The pallor of his  
face made the scar more noticeable. He stood silently near the door, waiting.  
  
"I meant it," Bartlet repeated so softly that only Toby could hear him.  
  
Toby closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "Thank you, Mr.  
President," he murmured as he left.  
  
Bartlet remained standing as Leo entered the Oval Office. "Thank you for joining  
us, Mr. McGarry. Mr. Ambassador, I'd like to hear your explanation about this  
'gift' you presented to me. First of all, may I at least assume that you did not  
know about the contents of the reliquary?"  
  
Arensky shook his head. "I did know about the contents, Mr. President. In fact,  
I arranged for them to be put in there."  
  
***  
  
The first thing Josh saw was CJ's angry face.  
  
She was sitting on the sofa with her arms around Donna, who was sobbing quietly  
into her shoulder. CJ stroked Donna's hair as she gave Josh a murderous scowl.  
"Of all the excruciatingly dim-witted things to do--"  
  
"I know, CJ." He took a few shallow breaths. "Can Donna and I have the room?"  
  
"Is that okay?" CJ asked, and Donna nodded without turning around. CJ stood up,  
still glaring at Josh, and said, "I'll be in Toby's office, Donna, if you need  
weaponry or something."  
  
Josh ran his hands through his hair, then sat down next to Donna, close but not  
touching her. "Sam told me everything."  
  
"He wasn't supposed to do that," Donna whispered, drying her eyes on a kleenex  
and turning toward Josh.  
  
"I'm glad he did." Josh handed Donna a fresh tissue from the box on CJ's table.  
"I've been such a jackass."  
  
Donna laughed as she wiped her eyes some more. "I won't deny that," she said,  
turning all the way toward Josh this time.  
  
Her tear-stained face made him cringe, made him need to take her hands in his.  
"You could've told me, you know. You could've just said, 'Hey, Josh, we've been  
passing this thing around among us when our lives get complicated.' Why didn't  
you do that?"  
  
She shook her head. "You were so upset that I didn't think you'd be able to  
listen, or if you did then you'd be as furious at them as you were at me. I  
didn't want to see that anger multiplied times the five of us."  
  
"I was angry. I was more than angry, I was crazy." He paused to control the  
quaver in his voice. "I saw that sitting there and...it was like I was shot all  
over again."  
  
"Oh, Josh," Donna murmured, letting him put his arms around her and embrace her  
tightly, rocking from side to side.  
  
Although he was almost breathless with relief, he managed to find his voice.  
"We're going out to dinner in a little while. Come with us."  
  
"I don't know," Donna said hesitantly as she pulled away and dabbed once more at  
her eyes. "I didn't sleep much last night. I won't be much company."  
  
"I'm sorry," Josh said, meaning it in so many ways. "But come anyway. Amy's got  
this big address book full of nice Democratic boys."  
  
"Yet she ended up with you." Donna smirked at him for a moment, then sighed, the  
levity gone as quickly as it had come. "I'm not looking, Josh. I'm not going to  
feel like looking for a while."  
  
"Yeah, but in the meantime, you need to eat." He got up and held his hand out to  
her, helping her get off the sofa.  
  
"I'll come on one condition," Donna said as they started walking back to the  
bullpen, lengthening her step to catch up with Josh's quick stride.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"I get to steal food off your plate."  
  
Josh paused for a moment. "You know, Amy does that, too. What is it with women  
and my food?" he asked, and as they started laughing he noticed that their steps  
had once again become perfectly synchronized.  
  
***  
  
Leo's hands were balled into fists at his side and Bartlet could hear his teeth  
grinding together.  
  
"Did I hear you correctly?" Bartlet asked. "You had this put inside the  
reliquary?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"What in God's name possessed you to do such a thing!" Bartlet was furious, only  
scarcely able to control his temper.  
  
"If I may explain, sir. When I got the call from my Prime Minister that I was to  
be sent to the United States, I was on assignment with the NATO peacekeepers in  
Serbia. My military background had been a factor in my government's decision to  
place me there." He paused for a moment. "During that time, I heard through back  
channels that an American plane was shot down not too far away. The Serbs'  
equipment malfunctioned and made a faulty identification as a bomber, not as a  
plane used for surveillance."  
  
"So they shot him down," Bartlet stated, his anger still seething. "What else  
did you learn?"  
  
"That the Serbian government decided to - I'm sorry, I don't know what you call  
it in English. 'Erase,' perhaps? To erase the incident. They took the plane  
apart on the scene and scattered the pieces inside every scrap heap they could  
find. And the officer's body..." Arensky stopped and looked at the President and  
Leo with sadness in his eyes. "Excuse me. It seems disrespectful...may I know  
his name?"  
  
"Lieutenant Alex Crosby," Leo said softly.  
  
"Their plans were to burn the body of Lieutenant Crosby and never reveal what  
had happened to him."  
  
Bartlet winced. "What did you do?"  
  
"Of course I contacted my government, but they were unable to offer me much  
assistance since I'd made this discovery by highly unofficial means." His voice  
dropped. "Mr. President, Mr. McGarry, I am a Catholic. I am also a soldier, and  
the brother of two men who were killed in action and whose bodies were buried in  
unmarked, mass graves. I could not bear stand by and watch this happen to  
Lieutenant Crosby's family."  
  
Nodding, Bartlet walked over to the chairs and motioned for Leo to follow.  
"Please, Mr. Arensky, let's sit down before you continue." He looked over at  
Leo, who nodded his assent, his body relaxing although his face still bore a  
great deal of sorrow and concern.  
  
"I had very little time," Arensky continued. I made a call to the priest at the  
church I attended in Kosovo - will it be necessary for me to tell you his name,  
Mr. President?"  
  
"No. That won't be necessary."  
  
"Thank you. He is a humble man, a humanitarian working with both NATO and the  
Serbs to get food and medicine to the people. He is also good friend, and he was  
as scandalized as I was that this could happen. It occurred to him that he could  
go to the morgue, arrange to bless the body in private, and take a photograph  
But when he got there, the man's face..." Arensky trailed off for a moment. "It  
would have done little good. There were only moments to spare, so he took the  
only course of action he could think of."  
  
"The priest?" Leo asked, horrified. "The priest..."  
  
"He had been a field medic in his younger years. He didn't tell me exactly how  
it was done, Mr. President." There was an uncomfortable silence. "But the priest  
assured me that he has prayed night and day for the soul of Lieutenant Crosby  
and asked forgiveness both for the desecration of the body and also for  
involving the young man at the mortuary, also his parishioner, who assisted in  
the...preparation of the finger. As it turned out, their quick thinking made it  
possible for the body to be identified at all, because only a few hours later it  
was cremated and the ashes scattered."  
  
Bartlet's eyes dimmed. He shook his head. "What about the reliquary itself?"  
  
"It belonged to the church. Years and years ago the relic had been proven to be  
false - a wax finger with chicken bones inserted - so the little statue was kept  
in a vault and very few people knew of its existence. The priest had let me see  
it several months ago when he was showing me around the church, and because of  
that I thought of a way to get the finger to the United States."  
  
"Because you knew that any gift to me would be scrutinized thoroughly," Bartlet  
said. "No wonder you looked so surprised when my aide brought it in from the  
Gift Office. You didn't think it'd get that far."  
  
"That's right, Mr. President." Arensky bowed his head. "I'm only sorry that  
there won't be any course of action for you to take against the Serbian  
government. And, of course, I have my letter of resignation here."  
  
"I will not accept your resignation. You, the priest, and the young man who  
helped, all made heartbreaking decisions that will bring closure to a grieving  
family. Our communications department will release the Lieutenant's name and  
cause of death separately from any news about the reliquary. Because the  
reliquary was a private gift rather than one from the State, your country will  
not suffer any embarrassment on its account." Bartlet's face became stern again.  
"And we'll see about the Serbian government."  
  
Arensky's dark eyes shone. "Thank you, Mr. President." He rose as he reached  
into his attaché case and pulled out the silver statue. "A representative from  
the FBI returned this to my hotel just before I came here." He handed the  
reliquary to Bartlet, who stood up, looking at it with fondness and regret.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador, but I can't keep it. Not after this. I hope you  
understand." He gave it back to Arensky. "On your next visit home, please thank  
your good friend the priest for me, and see that the reliquary goes back to the  
church. Let it be laid to rest."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. President." Arensky shook hands with Bartlet and Leo,  
then placed the reliquary back in his attaché case and left the Oval Office.  
  
"It was so beautiful, Leo," Bartlet whispered in a voice full of emotion. "It  
was a symbol of my faith, and I had it right here in my hands."  
  
"You had to let a matter of State take precedence over a matter of faith, Mr.  
President. It's not the first time you've had to make this choice. And it won't  
be the last." Bartlet nodded, his eyes cast down, and Leo took the cue. "Good  
night, Mr. President."  
  
"Good night, Leo."  
  
Bartlet stood alone for several minutes after Leo left, breathing deeply,  
listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock. With a sigh he turned around  
and pressed the button on the intercom. "Charlie," he said softly. "That call we  
need to make? It's time."  
  
***  
  
"It's not often that we get shoved out of the way in a D.C. restaurant," CJ  
commented as she followed Josh, Amy, Toby, and Donna into a private room.  
  
"It's not often that we make so many jokes about 'putting one's finger on a  
situation,'" Toby responded.  
  
"That's sick," was Amy's comment.  
  
"You're just jealous because twenty-four people made the 'giving the President  
the finger' joke before you thought of it," Josh taunted.  
  
"Is there food coming?" Donna twisted around in her seat, scanning the room for  
a waitress. "Oh, hey, Sam and Ainsley found us after all."  
  
They didn't greet one another as everyone got settled around the table, just  
began talking again as if their earlier conversations hadn't been interrupted.  
"How'd the farm subsidies thing go, Josh?" Sam asked.  
  
"Got it done in an hour. Thanks to Donna," he said, waving his beer bottle in  
her direction.  
  
"What about the food?" Donna asked again, fanning herself with her menu to mask  
the blush rising on her cheeks.  
  
"I ordered some earlier, but since Ainsley's here we'd better order about six  
more appetizers," Josh said. "Ow! Somebody kicked me!"  
  
CJ laughed. "I was just crossing my legs, there. And please, tell me that we're  
not having chicken fingers."  
  
There was a general groan around the table, followed by a moment where nobody  
said anything.  
  
Ainsley broke the silence. "Toby, I am so, so sorry," she said with her hands  
over her heart. "I misspoke, and it was..."  
  
"Nah, it's okay." He looked over at her. "Did you know that mohels - they're the  
guys who perform circumcisions - don't get paid?"  
  
She just stared at him and her voice rose at the end of her sentence as if it  
were a question. "No, I did not."  
  
Toby took a sip of beer and waggled his eyebrows at her. "They only take tips."  
  
CJ started first, then Josh, and pretty soon they were all laughing as the  
waitress came to their table and set down an enormous plate of chicken fingers.  
  
***  
  
That night in the Oval Office, one small table lamp offered its golden glow  
against the darkness of the night. Bartlet faced the speakerphone, looking with  
sorrow at a photograph of a young man in an Air Force uniform.  
  
"Mrs. Crosby, this is Jed Bartlet. Thank you for taking my call so late at night  
on such a sad occasion. The First Lady and I want you to know that our hearts go  
out to you for the loss of your son..."  
  
***   
END  
***  
  
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Back to West Wing .  



End file.
